You said it. Did they learn it?

Imagine I explain a movement to a player, get a nod, and the first attempt looks nothing like what I had in mind. Or I explain a way of giving feedback to a group of coaches, then ask one of them to try it. They can repeat my explanation. Using it with a player is another matter.

In either situation, it would be easy to reach for the familiar complaint: I’ve already told them. Yes. And?

That tells me what came out of my mouth. It tells me very little about what the other person could make of it, remember, or use. A player has to make a decision while the ball is moving. A coach has to notice what a player needs and decide what to say—or whether to say anything at all. Neither gets to borrow my understanding just because they listened to it.

A nod might mean understanding. It might mean someone thinks they understand. It might be politeness, or a wish not to delay everyone else. I cannot tell which by admiring the nod.

A study by Louis Deslauriers and colleagues makes this easier to picture. University physics students were randomly assigned to two kinds of class, covering the same material with the same handouts.

In the lecture class, the instructor showed the students how to solve the problems. In the active-learning class, students first tried to solve those problems together in small groups. The instructor moved around, asked questions and helped. After each attempt, the instructor explained the full solution—the same solution the lecture class received.

So both groups got the explanation. The difference was whether they tried to work out the problem before being shown how.

Afterwards, the students who had worked on the problems scored higher on a test of learning. Yet they felt they had learned less than the students who had watched the instructor explain.[1]

That is an awkward result if a smooth explanation and a satisfied audience are how I judge my teaching.

This was physics, not volleyball or coach education. It does not prove that a particular drill or workshop works, or that leaving people confused is good teaching. It gives me a reason to look beyond how clear a session felt and check what people can actually do with it.

With a player, I could ask for one attempt at the movement, or ask them to explain the next decision before trying it. With a coach, I could ask them to lead a short activity or practise giving feedback to another participant acting as a player. Then we have something to examine together: what they noticed, what they chose to do, and what might need adjusting.

Then comes the part that sounds easy on paper: let them finish. If I jump in at the first hesitation and supply the answer, I’m back to demonstrating what I know. Having coaches in the room does not make that habit any more useful.

I don’t want this to become an ambush or a test of whether somebody was paying attention. I can make the purpose clear: I want to see whether my explanation gave them something they can use. If it didn’t, I need to adjust the explanation, the task or the support—not just deliver the same speech with more volume.

One successful attempt is not the end of the enquiry either. I would still want to see what remains later, without my running commentary: the player making the decision, the coach running the activity.

I don’t need to stop explaining. I need to leave enough room for someone else to learn how to do the work.